Letter from Elizabeth

Dear Risa,

He saw me, Risa.  I know he did.

I came into the room to fix my hair, as is still my habit, in spite of the rot and decay that mar my once beautiful face. 

He did not startle as i entered, but continued to read his book, his gait as straight and tall as the tree from which I often watch him.  The only sign he was aware of my presence in the room was a raising of the small hairs on the back of his long white neck and a slight intake of breath as he turned the page of his book.

I couldn’t help myself, i went up to him.  I stood behind him and looked at the book he was reading, attempting to peer over his shoulder and read.  It seemed a dry text, lacking the mirth of my old novels.

He shut the book, and placed it on the dressing table, and i felt sure he would leave the room, leaving me to my eternal lonliness.  But he turned back towards me, and held out his hand.  I swear my dead heart skipped a beat.

I took his hand with my lifeless fingers.

He smiled.

He turned and led me to the bay window, which let in sunlight and birdsong.  I twirled to an imaginary audience, and we waltzed through the dappled shadows that fell across the floor.  I danced and twirled, feeling almost mortal again, laughing with the joy of this human contact somewhere just beyond my fingertips. 

I was beautiful again, just for a second.  No blood stained my cheek.  No hollows darkened my eyes.  No bruises attested to the attrocity i fared in those Japanese hands, which I still shudder to think of.  For a second, just a second, there was no war, no death, no pain.  Only a man and a woman dancing in silence.  Just for a second, happiness.

He led me back to the dressing table, bowed, and pressed his lips to kiss my hand.

In that moment, my dead heart knew that even the bonds of death could never break my love for him. 

I will follow him forever, standing always by his shoulder as he reads.  I will sit by his bed as he sleeps, watching the dreams race across his furrowed brow. I will count the moments of his life, as youth passes into age, waiting for the time where his mortality passes into darkness; the moment when, in death, he and I shall finally become one.

While other lovers are parted by death, he and I shall be united by it.

I have seen the sadness which hides in the corner of his eye.

I have seen the tenderness which lingers in his touch.

I have felt what it is to love, and nothing and no-one shall come between us.

Yours,

Elizabeth.